


Hide You Through This

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [17]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angry Dean Winchester, Bottom Dean, M/M, Omega Dean, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sam, Protective Sam, Scared Sam, Top Sam, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 04:11:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4420853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean growls, loose thing, and watches as a muscle ticks in his brother’s jaw. “Stop fucking lying Sam! I wanna know what the fuck is going on!”</p><p>Wherein Dean's about to tear the whole world down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hide You Through This

Dean’s pretty sure that Maple Syrup is striving to kill Lilac.

He’s blushing, thinking about his children by scent-name, but he’s told, according to all the books he’s quietly purloined on the topic, that it’s a perfectly instinctual thing to do. Sam’s not here right now, he’s gone out to get coffee and breakfast, and then they’re headed to Sioux Falls.

It’s been a quiet decision, that Dean’s not hunting for the foreseeable future. He gazes down at his hands, cracked and callused, can feel the tight stretch of skin as he curls his fingers in and out. Dean doesn’t like it.

He wants to demolish cities, wreak havoc in blood-rain and savagery, that he’s been relegated to bitch-status, something he’s managed to avoid, all of his life.

That’s not to say he hates Sammy, for what his brother has done to him, (allowed), but he doesn’t know how to be this entity, to be motionless. He’s disturbed about what this says about him, that he’s accepted new life within, only to place them directly in harm's way.

He’s aware of hellhounds. Knows they strip their victims to the core, slice away at meat and crimson until their claws are hooked around the soul, liberated in an exorcism of vengeance. Dean’s not too bothered about that part. He figures he’ll be long dead when most of the damage is done.

He can’t protect the pups inside him, though. He is going to be the direct result of their demise, and he doesn’t have many alternatives for them.

He rises, belly a gentle swell beneath Sam’s old Stanford hoodie, faded thing, falls down over his hands entirely, covers the back pockets of his jeans. He looks like an overgrown child in it, but he doesn’t like wearing his own clothes, abhors the tittering Omegas that flock around him, scenting his pregnancy and gushing incessantly.

_how many? You’re only a few months along? Aren’t you?_

_I didn’t mean to scent, I’m so sorry, but they’re precious!_

Sam’s got Dean’s arms tangled around him, presses butterfly kisses into Dean’s forehead and Dean wants to die. He looks up at Sammy, though, when his brother isn’t paying attention, soft brown hair hanging shyly in his face.

Proud Alpha. Sam’s content. Dean didn’t know what that looked like, until now. Didn’t remember floppy-haired Sammy, sturdy, short, gap-toothed grin and Kool-Aid red mouth. Dean thinks about the last time he witnessed Sammy so carefree, and it was probably before Dean declared.

Before Sam was taught a lesson in loss, two of three.

Dean can’t begrudge his brother this. Circumstances altered, he could even find it in himself to be excited. Always wanted a kid. Wanted to see if it was possible to raise a child without bruising it, create and sustain life, rather than decimating it.

Dean thinks Sammy’s _alive._

Somehow, this unsettles him more than all the rest, combined.

He feels them stirring, waking up, brief respite in their slumber forgotten. Lilac’s first, always before Maple, slow unfurling next to the jolt of consciousness. Dean pushes the last of his shirts into his duffel, glances around the room to see if he’s left anything. He’s usually pretty meticulous about that.

He spares a loaded look around the room. Floral wallpaper, peeling at the edges. Gardenias, maybe? Navy sheets, white comforters, awkward dining room table in the center of the adjoining kitchen, splintered wood. Dean pitches his bag on top of the table, self consciously tugs his sleeves down further.

He glances up as the key twists in the lock, reaches toward the small of his back for the 9mm he’s got tucked close.

Always.

Sam strides in, coffee balanced in a carrier in one hand, other hand burdened with a grocery bag filled with some form of greenery. Dean shudders, war flashbacks. He sniffs the air thoroughly, hairs prickling at the back of his neck. Smells like body wash, sharp midnight tang, fresh water.

Sammy’s clean.

Dean grips his fists, battle-worn and tight, by his side.

Sam crosses over to him, leans down and presses insistent lips to Dean’s. Dean grants access, tilting his face up for his brother. Sam deposits his bounty down upon the table behind him, pulls him flush, warm palm on the small of Dean’s back. He releases Dean, out of breath.

Dean’s head remains upturned, forehead pressed to Sam’s. “Dean,” his brother says, on an exhale, quiet like a rosary. Dean smiles, forced, pushes back from his brother’s air and drags his fingers against the base of his neck, red lines raised, Chelsea smile.

“Where you been, Sam?” Dean’s tired of ignoring it, comatose with giving Sam space. Dean doesn’t have the luxury of space. Dean lives every day with his decisions, thinks about ending the lives of his children because he won’t be able to bear it if his pups

Jesus, _Sammy’s_ pups

smell like fear-scent, metal tang and oil, rancid, when the hellhounds come for Papa.

He can’t live knowing that their last moments will be abject terror. That there will be nothing he can do to save them. The only consolation is that he will not survive their deaths. Dean doesn’t know how to justify his will to live with his inherent need to fight. He has always battled for everything he’s ever owned.

He wants to drag them all to Hell with him, wailing in affliction.

Sam looks up, surprised. “Dean, I know you might be getting old, but I know you can see the coffee on--” Dean growls, loose thing, and watches as a muscle ticks in his brother’s jaw. “Stop fucking _lying_ Sam! I wanna know what the fuck is going on!”

Dean presses both hands to his stomach, rubs soothingly, there’s no way to help the fact that he’s going to agitate the pups. They’ve never seen Papa livid before, not really. Sam steps into his face, eyes shining, reaching out to his kids. “Dean, man, c’mon you’re gonna upset ‘em--”

Dean steps out of Sam’s sphere, tripping on the rug beneath him, barely managing to avoid toppling to the ground. Dean’s heart rate increases as Sam opens his mouth wide, dark cavern of teeth, allows his incisors to extract with a feral snarl. “I’ll tell you Dean,” he whisper-yells, flushed face and alpha-violence.

“Just calm down.” Sam looks terrified, Dean can scent that under the murder-rage that is his brother, smells like damp earth and ocean. The worms Dean used to bait on his hook when he and Sammy went fishing together. Dean doesn’t move another muscle, catches his brother directly in the eye.

“Then start talking, kid. I wanna know where the fuck you been going, and why the hell you feel the need to be as clean as the Virgin Mary’s pussy when you come back.”

Dean’s incensed, he’ll be damned if Sam keeps something else from him. Not this.

Sam’s palms are upturned, face slack. “Dean. Dean. Don’t move when I tell you this.” Dean’s eyes widen. Oh, it’s about to be that good, then? Dean smirks, crosses his arms over his chest, pushing Sam’s sleeves up to his elbows.

Sam breathes deeply and straightens, incisors still lengthened. “Don’t try to run.” The words are smothered in Alpha-command, and Dean’s body reacts to it instantly, legs popping stiffly as they lock in place. “Sammy you son of a bitch--”

But his brother’s speaking, stumbling over his own thoughts in his haste. “I’ve been summoning crossroads demons.” Dean’s fingers rip through skin, rust smell permeating the air and Sam takes a long step forward, low-grade rumble and concern.

“Stay the hell back, Sammy. What’s your big plan, boy? You gonna call up as many as you can find before you drop dead? You that excited to feel that knife in your back all over again?” Dean can’t move, try as he might, eyes darting for the exit.

“You wanna stop breathing and leave me and these damn kids all alone, that it?” Sam’s shaking his head, violent spasms, fingers locked together, policing his mutinous hands. Traitors. “Dean, it’s not like that. You gotta listen for a second, man!”

Dean pauses, head cocked inquisitively. Alright, Sammy’s got an explanation. Let’s hear it. “I can’t lose you all. I can’t watch you all die in front of me. I won’t **do that**.”

Dean’s rocked back on his heels, force of Sam’s declaration. “You think we’d be much better off without you? Fucking dead, and me, raising these pups, fucking single ‘mega.” Sam narrows his eyes, intense. “You’d have them. It’d be easier.” Sam hisses the words, Eve in the garden.

Sam stalks closer, ignoring Dean’s growls. “I don’t do this without you. I don’t get to do this shit _without you_.” Sam’s voice is frigid, choked syllables.

Dean deflates, righteous indignation giving way to cold rage. “You’re not even thinking about all the blood you got on your hands, Sam. They’re people, too.”

Sam’s face crumples, then sharpens, fine-tipped point, and his hands drop from where they rest on Dean’s upper arms.

“Think of it this way, Dean.” Sam peers down at him, mouth in a thin line, Lucy in the Sky eyes.

“Think of how much more blood there’ll be if they take you from me.”

**Author's Note:**

> :)


End file.
